


Rudyard Ruins* The Bed** Sharing Trope

by Melanie_D_Peony



Series: Rudyard Ruins EVERYTHING [5]
Category: Wooden Overcoats (Podcast)
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, And when I say melodrama I mean MELODRAMA, Between Episodes, Between Seasons/Series, Blackmail, Conspiration, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Heads up for SPOILERS and reappropriating canon text, Here be intrigue, Love Confessions, M/M, Melodrama, Mention of death and funerals, One Shot, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Truly appalling levels of earnestness, in truly Piffling style, ish, no beta we die like men, passionate kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28477545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_D_Peony/pseuds/Melanie_D_Peony
Summary: Rudyard Funn runs a funeral home in the village of Piffling Vale. It used to be the only one. It isn’t any more. Rudyard is very serious man of great asceticism, who rarely indulges in anything, save from the occasional sherbet dip dab. He wouldn’t be caught dead drinking in public, or worse, expressing himself creatively and he has a thing or two to say to those who do.So, you’d certainly never find someone like Rudyard getting in bed with the opposition.Surely.
Relationships: Eric Chapman/Rudyard Funn
Series: Rudyard Ruins EVERYTHING [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003398
Comments: 11
Kudos: 32





	Rudyard Ruins* The Bed** Sharing Trope

**Author's Note:**

> *,** Bit of a strong word, depending on your perspective.

The sun was just coming up. The beginning of another ordinary day in Piffling Vale. Rudyard and Georgie were returning from the burial of Mrs Novak to their gloomy funeral parlour. It's been a quiet and dignified affair; everything the Piffling High Street currently wasn't. You see, it was the annual Bring Your Horse To Water Day Parade and the foot traffic on the main avenue was brought to a grinding halt by the slow proceeds of the street party. Spirits flowed freely which kept spirits running high; with street vendors offering every drink imaginable from pretentious French wines, through whimsical bottles of sherry up to nips of brandy. And by nip, I mean a pint.

The Piffling populace was rapidly becoming exalted as you'd only ever see them when sports were involved and encountering a crowd in a mood this elated made Georgie hook a wary palm around Rudyard's elbow. 

'Let's just go through Conveniently Deserted Street, Sir.' She suggested, a sensible proposal. A man as unpopular as Rudyard with no redeeming social graces to speak of and indeed no verbal filters was bound to get assaulted by a mob with guards as low and blood alcohol as high as this. 

But it turned out, just as Rudyard and Georgie turned the corner to the aforementioned alley, that Conveniently Deserted Street wasn't as deserted as you'd come to reasonably expect. 

'Hey, wotcha Templar!' Sid Marlowe's booming tenor emerged echoing down from the end of the alley. Making Georgie push her boss between two nearby bins that were full, judging by the smell, of rotting fish.

'Quick, budge up.' She demanded, squeezing herself in too. 

'Georgie, I'm not hiding in here.' Squabbled Rudyard, utterly confused, trying to clamber out. But Georgie's iron grip around his collar held him in position. He could do little else but moan indignantly. 'But it's a public alley!' 

'Shut it, Sir.' Georgie snarled a warning, in tandem with Templar's vicious sneer emerging from the far end of the close.

'Quiet, you blabbering, incompetent buffoon. Don't you know what a clandestine meeting is?'

'Nope, never 'eared of it.' Confirmed Marlowe, strangely proud of his own ignorance for a journalist. 'Is that the same as a “conflict of interests”?'

'I'm surrounded by imbeciles.' Mumbled Lady Templar, then snapped. 'Let's just get this over with, shall we?' 

'As you wish.' Crooned Sid with a merry, audible shrug to his cadence. 'Come on then, Templar, cough up the loot. '

Georgie finally decided to poke her head out from behind the dustbin, just in time for me to scuttle up her shoulder and get an eyeful of Piffling's leading socialite, deep in covert conversation with the island's premiere journalist as she leafed through a thick wad of cash.

'Hundred pounds, was it?' She asked as Sid Marlowe held his palm out expectantly, shaking his head.

'That was last week. Haven't you heard of inflation?'

'So how much is it now?' 

'Five hundred knickers.' 

'That's daylight robbery!' Templar complained, causing Marlowe to poke a finger in the air in the most scholarly manner.

'Listen, I've got a dynamite story of the most influential person on Piffling bribing the Chief Editor of Piffling Matters to run a smear campaign against her lover's main competitor. It will cost you a lot more than a hundred quid to bump that off the front page.'

'But you are the Chief Editor of Piffling Matters.' Lady Templar wailed and Marlowe hung his head mournfully.

'Exactly. Corruption in the media, it gets worse every day.'

'So, what? You'll just expose your own pathetic tissue of lies and confabulations you've invented to besmirch Rudyard Funn?' 

'Unless you pay up, of course.' Sid readily explained.

Forced in the face of Sid Marlowe's obliviousness to resort to violence, Lady Templar hooked a manicured hand around the editor's shirt of an atrocious medley of offending colours, holding him to uncomfortable, intimate proximity to her face. 

'Listen to my voice.' She seethed. 'I can't afford to pay you five hundred pounds because I don't have five hundred pounds. I'm absolutely skint these days. Flat out broke.' 

'So what do you propose?' Quipped Marlowe, a bit cowed.

'You can have a hundred pounds and this bread.' Templar declared, picking up a paper bag containing a loaf of garlic panini from by her ankle.

'Deal.' Marlowe snatched the sack from her, greedily guzzling down the baked goods as Templar counted five twenty quid bills into his greasy palm. 'Pleasure doing business with ya'.

Once he clutched his impatient palm around the money, a nasty snarl bloomed on Marlowe's face like a poisonous orchid growing only in the most adverse environment. 

'And how's this little scheme working out for ya'?' He inquired through a mouthful, making Lady Templar scoff.

'Oh, don't pretend that you haven't heard.' 

'Haven't heard what?' 

'About our acrimonious break up some days ago.' 

'Wait a minute. Eric Chapman. He dumped you?' 

'After giving me a lecture in public about “obvious lies” and “underhand tactics”, yes.' Lady Templar sniffed stiffly.

'Blimey. The nerve of the man.' Chewed Marlowe with mournful sympathy. 

'And after all, I've done for him too.' Vivienne broke into visceral sobs, her tears abating as quickly as they started as her rapid-fire moods changed again.

'Pilloriing the village pariah is not as much of a sacrifice as you imagine, Templar.' Marlowe pointed out, sucking the last of the garlic butter from his fingers.

'I don't remember asking for your opinion, Mr Marlowe. Whispered Lady Templar, her voice sinister, her “p”s popping before she threw her head back and emitted a shrill, hysterical laugh. 'But he hasn't heard the last of me, that preening egomaniac. Mark my words.' 

'Right-o.' Marlowe shrugged, not the least bit concerned by the woman's manic behaviour. 'See you around, Templar.' 

'Mr Marlowe.' Lady Templar nodded with uppity grace and with that both conspirators left the Conveniently Deserted Street, making it almost loyal to its name once more.

Clambering out from between the bins, slightly stiff and sore from standing in a position so awkward for so long, Rudyard and Georgie exchanged some shell-shocked looks.

'Bloody 'ell, Rudyard.' The dogsbody declared eloquently while Rudyard could merely gape like a landlocked fish.

'So Chapman _was_ telling the truth all along.' He finally uttered, looking pale and wide-eyed, not unlike someone who'd just been confronted by Mother Theresa's apparition.

'And the libel campaign was all Templar's doing, yes.' Georgie concluded with grave solemnity.

Assistant and boss looked guiltily at each other, as they have spent the last week or so engaged in a prank war against Chapman, using only the lowliest, bottom of the barrel tactics, narrowly avoiding breaching the Geneva Convention on multiple occasions. 

'Rudyard, we should apologise.' Georgie voiced what they were both thinking, forcing a shaky little laugh of discomfort from his boss. 

‘Should is a strong word. ' 

'We'll feel bloody awful otherwise.' 

'But he is Eric Chapman. I bet he hardly even noticed all those mean-spirited japes and water balloons-.'

'I mean... Yeah.' Georgie drawled, uncertain.

There was a beat of discomfited quiet between them, as they were deluding themselves of course and they both knew it. Eric Chapman had definitely noticed when his trousers fell off on cue in the middle of the Gladstone funeral. And he must have been aware of the front of his house being egged as they watched him spend five hours washing it, sniggering merrily away in the safety of the confines of Funn Funerals.

'Rudyard, we have to own up to all those pranks.' Georgie finally broke the silence, the voice of reason once more as Rudyard growled, disbelieving.

'Oh no.' 

'We did spend this past week systematically destroying his mail.' She reminded her boss.

'Oh, no.' Rudyard repeated, still in denial.

'And we hired to hoodlums to vandalize his hearse.' 

'And they ended up graffiti-ing the finest example of a street art mural on it instead. And still had the nerve to charge _us_. So I don't see what do we have to feel sorry for.' 

'Sir, are you having a chuffin' laugh?' 

'People from all the way to _Alderney_ came in flocks to see it!'

Catching Georgie's glare Rudyard threw his hands in the air in a contrite gesture of surrender. 'Alright, alright. We'll buy him some cheap lilies from the market, have them delivered.' 

He earned himself a pleased nod from his assistant.

'That's the spirit, Sir.' Georgie encouraged him, looking more at ease with herself already.

'After some hot water?' Rudyard suggested feebly, making a vain attempt at procrastination and, to his shock, Georgie caved with only a few moments of hesitation. 

'Could do with a cuppa.' She admitted, adding. 'And some strawberry mousse.' 

Having made their plans, they nipped through the alley and towards Funn Funerals, growing a bit self-conscious once more as the looming bulk of Chapman's came into view. It looked unusually quiet, but that was understandable; everyone was away, partying at the Parade. Rudyard kept eyeing the foyer's doors, however, as if expecting the owner to come bursting out to accost him.

'So, Georgie.' He began, eyes never leaving the front of Chapman's. He tried for a casual tone, but overshot, landing on the wavering pitch of a teenager amid his voice dropping. 'How are things between you and Miss Delacroix?' 

'We are doing fine.' Georgie answered curtly, her voice full of suspicion. 'Why?' 

'Well, she's your girlfriend, isn't she?' Offered Rudyard, snappish like that was an explanation. 

'Gratified that you've noticed. Never really cared for her before though, have you?' Georgie frowned.

'Now look here, as your boss and employer, it's well within my line of duty to-'

'No, it's not.' Georgie interrupted, shutting down something that would have been tantamount to inappropriate workplace behaviour in any other firm. 

'I still pay your wages.' Argued Rudyard. 'Occasionally.' 

'Doesn't matter.' Georgie educated him with waning patience.

'Doesn't it?' Rudyard hiccoughed, evident bafflement painted all over his face. 'B-b-but as your friend-'

'Yeah, you see that's a different story entirely.' Georgie shrugged, mollified. It was only Rudyard, after all. She might as well indulge him. 'Well, we've been going out for a while now and-'

'And have you done a lot of that?' Rudyard interrupted while Georgie narrowed her eyes in a renewed fit of confusion. 

'Going out? Yeah, tons. I am great at relationships. None of them lasted quite as long as this one, though.' She added thoughtfully. 'You know I've been thinking about asking her to move i-'

'And how does one go about... ”going out” with someone?' Rudyard's voice trailed off and his face crumpled into an expression of distaste like the words had left a tangy flavour on his tongue as he commanded his awkward lips to fit around the unfamiliar shape of the syllables.

Georgie heaved laboriously in a moment of disbelieving asphyxiation. Though it was reassuring that he'd clearly had some sort of agenda and wasn't merely engaged inane chit-chat, Rudyard Funn, of all people, didn't just ask her for dating advice...

Did he? 

Still, Georgie knew better than try to talk sense into her boss. The best she could do was to help him along, so she tapped her chin in deep contemplation and offered as they mounted the small set of stairs by the Funn's front door.

'Well, normally I would say that you should smile a lot and say your date's name all the time, but-' And there she had a particularly traumatizing flashback to Rudyard's last attempt at a genuine smile, so she amended. 'You should probably just go with what your heart tells you, Sir.'

'I'm not asking for _myself_ , Georgie, that would be ridiculous.' Billowed Rudyard, his indignant rage undermined somewhat by the way he was unable to quite meet Georgie's eyes, his rapid blinking signalling like a desperate SOS sign. 'Don't be silly in a funeral parlour.' 

'Riiight.' Draw led Georgie, resigned not to press the matter. If work with the Funns had taught her something, it was that what you didn't know couldn't hurt you. 'Well, it's basically just flirting until they start to really fancy you, I suppose.' 

Rudyard listened to this didactic explanation with patience and alertness, spent a moment deciphering it and then announced with firm conviction.

'These words. They mean nothing.'

Meanwhile, Georgie was busy wrapping up her impromptu TED talk.

'And then you start dating and _voilà_.' She gestured with a flourish as Rudyard s spine stiffened beside her.

'This isn't about me-' He protested, deep in the throes of disingenuous convulsions as he swivelled his eyes, and tugged awkwardly at his collar.

'Yeah, whatever.' Waved Georgie in a gesture of rebuttal, not convinced but not the least bit bothered by it. 

'This is all purely theoretical.' Rudyard promised, attempting a neutral, observant expression but ending up looking like an arthropodologist with severe arachnophobia. He couldn't quite forbid his gaze from flustering towards Chapman's time and time again and had no bearing over the blush creeping high up on his cheeks either. His severe expression had a hint of sadness to it too. 'Besides, none of this would help-' 

Intriguing as this slip of the tongue was Georgie quickly decided that she wasn't getting paid well enough to afford any further questions. She knew she'll find everything out on good time anyway, so to not to rush the inevitable, she decided to throw the front door open.

‘Would you like me run your bath for you, Sir?’ She offered instead. ‘A nice, warm bath should cheer you up.’

‘Oh, go on then.’ Rudyard conceded magnanimously and only noticed Georgie's scorn when the dogsbody nearly shut the door in his face.

“Well done, Georgie.” She syllabised, hands resting against her hips. “Excellent idea, Georgie.” 

‘Thank you, Georgie.’ Rudyard offered in a gruff, but small voice and his assistant beamed at him in response, widening the door once more.

'Don't mention it.' She smiled and spun on her heels getting ready to fetch a suitable basin when a piercing cry from across the square shattered the moment's equilibrium, the frail amicability of it all.

'Rudyard! Georgie! Thank God you are here!' It was the vicar. He was approaching slow, lumbering awkwardly across the cobbled street under the limp, placid bulk of something that looked vaguely like-

'It's Eric Chapman!' Bellowed the Reverend, dispersing any remaining doubt. For once. 'He's gone all wrong.'

As if to illustrate Wavering's point, Chapman stood abruptly upright and throwing his head back he unleashed his off-key tenor towards the looming threat of towering cumulonimbus.

'But maybe the Sun will come out, tomorrow, bet my bottom dollar thaaat-' He bemoaned to the heavens above, with about as much cheer and levity as a seagull in the final throes of death. And that is before he broke down in uncontrollable sobs, draping his weight over the already staggering chaplain. 

‘Jesus.’ Georgie breathed, scandalized while Rudyard was unable to articulate anything with his jaw going completely slack as his mind struggled to process what his disbelieving eyes beheld. 

Meanwhile, the Reverend tripped upwards, onto the front porch of Funn Funerals and now stood swaying, vertigo-inducing metronome, supporting Chapman. The man in question appeared to have reabsorbed every last bone of his body, as he rested his cheek against the balding spot on the top of the vicar's head, who stood slouching under his heavy frame. 

'Don't suppose you know what is wrong with him?' Asked Georgie getting a mere shrug in response; a treacherous endeavour that threatened to imbalance both mortician and priest.

‘Beats me.’ Nigel admitted. ‘He looked perfectly fine this morning. Perhaps a bit emotional, but nothing out of the ordinary, mind.’

‘Emotional?’ Echoed Rudyard and the Reverend nodded in response.

‘Yeah. He kept sighing. Like-‘ And he demonstrated by taking a great, big, audible gulp of air, the narrow cage of his chest rising with the effort. ‘This sort of a thing.’

Georgie stepped to Chapman, draping her palm over the man's forehead that crinckled in a frown as he struggled to focus on the figure in front of him.

‘Oh, hello Georgie.’ He bleated with a sluggish smile of recognition.

‘Shut up, Eric.’ The dogsbody hushed him, trying to concentrate. Turning to the Reverend, she announced. ‘Well, he is pretty hot.’

This made the corners of Eric's mouth tug upwards, quirking into an impish smile as he tried to finger gun and wink at Georgie in succession; ending up producing two flat blinks instead.

‘Always.’ He said, smarming and his reward was a murderous gaze from Georgie.

‘Don't flatter yourself.’ Addressing the others, she continued. ‘Still, I doubt that he is sick. Did you take him to see Dr Edgware?’

‘I'm afraid not. He is so frightfully busy with the casualties of the Parade.’ The vicar admitted, worrying his cassock with his free hand ina moderate fit of guilt.

‘So you decided to bring him here instead?’ Rudyard spluttered in disbelief.

‘I just thought that if he is unwell, he'll sort of need the company of his friends.’

‘And, and let me reiterate this, you decided to bring him _here_?!’

Unfortunately for all interested parties, Rudyard's indignant wailing finally alerted Chapman's attention. A smile of sheer bliss appeared on his face as he abandoned the side of the vicar in favour of toddling over to Rudyard on unsteady feet. My friend tried to back away but wasn't agile enough and Eric was now bracing against him, one exposed forearm hooked around Rudyard's shoulder.

‘Rudyard.’ Exclaimed Chapman with happy, unguarded, drunken slurring. ‘You came!’

‘I don't know what you mean, Chapman. I live here.’ 

But Eric wasn't interested in a theoretical battle regarding geolocation. Instead, going a bit cross-eyed with concentration, he reached up and squeezed Rudyard's cheeks, puckering the undertaker's lips into an involuntary “o” of surprise.

'Rudyard.' He began then he trailed off, splattering to a halt. Gearing up again, he added. 'Rudyard.' 

The aforementioned undertaker swatted Chapman's intrusive hand away and scowled at his inebriated counterpart.

'Now look Here, Chapman-' That is, until Eric gently tented his fingers against his raving mouth.

'Rudyard.' He said again with such conviction like he just bequeathed some profound secret onto his audience. 'You gorgeous, precious fox of a jewel.' 

Exhausted from stringing the words together he allowed his head to loll against Rudyard's shoulder, despite the punishing angle it forced on his back. Meanwhile, the proprietor of my mouse hole looked up with panic-filled eyes, to check whether the others have heard the endearment.

'I just wanted to say.' Eric whispered tenderly into Rudyard's lapel like it was a sure possessor of a sympathetic ear. 'I just wanted to say-.

‘Georgie, help me get him inside.’ Rudyard exclaimed desperately, Georgie springing to help with a disgruntled huff.

‘Jeez, ok, don't twist your knickers in a bunch.’ She ducked under Eric's other arm and together they tried walking the unsteady undertaker, counterbalancing the violent swaying that made him look like a seismograph on the loose.

As they entered the dust-filled foyer of Funn Funerals they were greeted by the sight of Antigone as she glided upstairs from her lair, smooth like the spread of smoke over the water. She looked almost content, as much as a woman who spends twenty-three hours a day in a mortuary can reasonably expected to be. That is until she spotted our procession, the anger draining her of colour. 

‘What in God's name has happened?’ She demanded, eyes flashing instinctively towards Rudyard. But it was the Reverend who responded instead. 

‘We shattered the mind a perfectly good funeral director, that's what.’ He wailed as he fluttered around Rudyard, Eric and Georgie with a lot of energy but very little purpose.

Then he paused for a moment of introspection and added.

‘Not sure if God had anything to do with it, mind.’

‘We didn't need him in the first place. Two undertakers on one island, it's simply excessive.’ Rudyard tried to reassure him, unable to quite repress the vindictiveness to his tone, drawing on himself the instantaneous wrath of the vicar.

‘Oh, I see. And tell me, Rudyard. If Eric has a breakdown, who's going to be in charge of the local events, huh? Or are you planning to run the Morris Dancing Group, the Morris Minor Group and the Maurice Chevalier Order of Knights?’ 

Rudyard's eyes widened, showing too much white altogether. His Adam's apple strained against the constraint of his shirt as he swallowed heavily and he sounded shocked and ragged as he turned to Antigone. 

‘Antigone, we need Eric Chapman back of his feet, stat.’

‘What do you expect _me_ to do about it?’

‘Well, you work with bodies all day. Can you not apply your voodoo or whatever is that you do and figure out what is wrong with him?’

‘Rudyard, the word that you are fumbling for is the diagnosis and the person who can provide it is Dr Edgware.’

‘Dr Edgware has better things to do than minding Eric Chapman.’

‘And I don't?!’ Antigone exploded, exasperated. She managed to calm herself, grounding through the sensation of her fingers pinching down the bridge of her nose as she explained. ‘Rudyard, keeping a body healthy and running is the polar opposite of what's expected of me. The only thing I am qualified to diagnose is whether he's dead.’

Over at Rudyard's left shoulder, Eric continued his murky running commentary, some unfortunately concise phrases emerging from it like driftwood. Rudyard would have sworn that he'd just said something about “being sad”, “comfort” and “holding hands”. Problem was if he could make those phrases out, so could Georgie who was standing just as near. Though she was presently engaged in listening to Antigone's narration the emergence of such disastrous eventuality was only a matter of time.

The anxiety in Rudyard's chest had a life of its own. There was no point in trying to reel it back in, so he let it take control of his voice as he pleaded with his sister. 

‘Antigone. Please.’

Alright, alright. She began to cross the foyer, cowed by Rudyard's desperation. She only took a few steps, however, before her sensitive nose twitched and she was forced to cover her orifices with the sleeve of her dark dress. 

‘My God, what is that pong?’ She demanded through the material. Then she braced herself and fought her disgust down with the swiftness of a professional used to dabbling in the softest of ripe human remains. Stepping up to Chapman she grabbed him by the lapel and gave him a shake to rouse him and bring him to focus.

‘Time to fess up, Chapman. What have you been drinking and how much of it? Was it cognac? Or champagne?’

‘Christ, no. Never touch any of that. Goes straight to my head.’ Protested Eric, as quickly as his dissident mouth would allow.

‘So what _were_ you drinking then?’ Georgie repeated, the recognition on her face crowded out by exasperation as she rolled her eyes.

‘Only methanol.’ Eric admitted, as sheepishly as a man who'd drunk himself jolly could muster.

Behind them, the Reverend threw his hands in the air. 

‘Of all the days-!’ He moaned, looking on the brink of blaspheming. ‘We've got a funeral in half an hour for heaven's sake.’ 

‘A funeral?’ Rudyard's head snapped up. ‘Whose?’

‘Grace, the owl. It had been in the Piffling events calendar for weeks. Everything's been organised, with no expenses spared. You see, Desmond really wanted to push the boat out on this one, make a real a splash, to have some impact. He says it's just the kind of thing they would do in a town.’

‘Worship a stuffed effigy of a deceased owl?’ Georgie asked, doubtful which the Reverend elected to swiftly ignore.

‘Exactly.’ He nodded, then turned to Antigone, worrying the cuffs of his cassock. ‘Is there something we could do to sober him up?’ 

‘Not much, I'm afraid.’

‘We could make him a fry up.’ Wagered Georgie. ‘Get out the emergency espresso rations-‘

‘You could make him chug all the water we collected last week, it wouldn't do a thing.’ Antigone shook her head. ‘The alcohol is in his bloodstream now and it will be a matter of hours for his body to break it down.’

Rudyard was doing a soldierly eyes right between his sister and Eric as Chapman continued to offer up fragments of nerve-wracking intelligibility; including, but not exclusive to something about a “brilliant man”, something sounding like “he’s so handsome” and “smelling like a sort of man person”. Trying desperately to talk over him, Rudyard hurried to disagree.

‘Look, there has to be something, some method or medicine or-or-or a spell-‘

‘There's nothing.’ 

‘What do you mean, nothing?’

‘Nothing means nothing, Rudyard.’ 

‘I'll do whatever it takes!’

‘No, you won't.’

‘You are right. I'll get Georgie to do whatever it takes.’

‘Hey!’

‘I'll tell you what you _could_ do.’ Antigone finally snapped. ‘You _could_ let him sleep it off. You _could_ rehydrate him if he gets sick. And you _could_ let a woman finish her breakfast!’

With that she clearly considered the conversation to be over as she tried to make her way towards the kitchen, ignoring Rudyard as he called after her.

‘But Antigone-‘ 

‘A nap sounds very nice, actually.’ Eric interrupted, loud yet drowsy and Rudyard snapped his head around to glare at him.

‘No, it doesn't.’ He insisted, but gathering whatever wits he still had about him, Eric added. 

‘It's just that I am ever so slightly tired-‘ He yawned as if to make a point. ‘And this happens to be my favourite floor-‘ 

‘Don't even think about it, Chapman.’ Warned Rudyard, but it was too late. Eric already started to take decisive action when he allowed his knees to buckle. Unlike Georgie, Rudyard was too stubborn to move out the way when he could still have. Instead, he fought to prop Eric up but all he accomplished was getting imbalanced as Chapman's centre off gravity shifted. As a result, he ended up toppled to the ground, buried under the slow-moving avalanche of a drunken undertaker. His effort to keep Eric upright meant that he broke their fall somewhat, buffering Chapman from landing face-first on the floor, but the collusion still made a thud loud enough to pull the question from Antigone: 

‘Are you alright, Rudyard? Anything bruised?’

‘Only my dignity.’ Came the disgruntled mutter from Rudyard where he lay on the floor, slightly choked as the burden of Chapman squeezed the air out of him, crushing his diaphragm and bearing down on his intercostal muscles.

Georgie allowed herself a half relieved, half gloating snicker at that, while Antigone simply squinted.

‘Pity.’

‘Well, don't just stand there chatting away! Do something!’ 

‘No, you are absolutely right.’ Nodded Antigone, snapping her finger at Georgie. ‘Georgina, fetch my father's camera from the attic.’

‘Antigone!’ Rudyard growled, very nearly frothing at the mouth with frustration. But his sister stifled his protests.

‘Rudyard this is our only chance to immortalize the downfall of Eric Chapman.’ And turning swiftly back to her assistants she added imperiously. ‘Georgie, I gave you a direct order.’

‘Already on it.’ Georgie reassured her, busy snapping pictures with her nifty little smartphone. Interest piqued, Antigone looked over her shoulder and studied the screen with a great deal of concentration and the poorly contained excitement of a Victorian time traveller.

‘How long will it take to develop?’ She mused while her employee just shrugged.

‘I could get it printed for you in the Mayor's office tomorrow.’

‘I want it framed.’ Antigone sighed greedily. 

‘Now look here, can you please pay attention to me?’ Rudyard tried to shift where he was sprawled on the ground to distribute Chapman's weight differently, in a way so the man's elbow wasn't threatening to cave his sternum in. The minute little wiggle only prompted the unconscious undertaker to snuggle even closer to him, so Rudyard froze, going rigid with terror. 

‘You have got to help me!’ He squealed with an appalled expression and that finally convinced Georgie to tuck her phone away.

‘Here we go, oopsie daisy.’ She cooed condescendingly as she looped her hands under Chapman's arms and around his chest and began to lift. But despite her visible strain, the dead lump of the sleeping undertaker would not budge. If anything, Eric was prompted to snake the grapevine of his limbs around Rudyard in an even more crushing embrace.

'Hoik him! Hoik him! Rudyard half commanded, half begged from under his considerable weight as Georgie's face flushed with the effort, a vein on her forehead throbbing with the rhythm of her heart as she risked hernia to free her boss.

'He's bloody heavy.' Her words filtered through her gritted teeth while Rudyard tried to wedge his hands against Chapman's chest to roll him off, but failed to dislodge his competitor. Georgie lowered her arms, having almost exhausted herself despite making no visible progress. 

'Stop complaining and put your back into it!' Rudyard demanded Georgie but just as she geared up once more, she lost her grip on the silky material of Eric's suit and his body crushed against Rudyard's, winding him completely and making him choke on any and all further imperatives.

'It's no use, sir. You are trapped.' Georgie declared

‘I once got trapped under a body. Mr Pressburger. Nobody came down to check on me for three days. I really thought I was going to die.’ Antigone was reminiscing. There was a strange, dreamy wistfulness to her voice as she talked about the gruesome prospect of expiring, buried alive under the three-time winner of the local Stockiest Man competition.

‘Death would be a welcome change of pace.’ Rudyard muttered darkly from beneath Chapman, causing his sister to snap.

‘Oh, shut up Rudyard. You are not the centre of attention here.’

‘Antigone, I have not had the best morning. I've held a funeral already, a truly miserable affair-‘

‘And thus, a resounding success.’ Georgie intercepted.

‘I've been in a bin for hours-‘ 

‘It was twenty minutes. At most.’

‘And now I am covered in six foot of smarming git.’ Rudyard concluded, his wails touching on a truly offensive volume.

‘Cheer up, Rudyard, it could be worse.’ Georgie encouraged him.

‘I can't see how.’

‘At least business is booming. Just like the good old days - you've only just conducted a funeral and now the Reverend wants you to do another one.’

‘Does he?’ Antigone scowled, confused.

‘Do I?’ Echoed the Reverend in a similar state of confoundment.

‘Course you do. Don't forget, you've promised a funeral to the people - and they'll be out for blood if they don't get it.’ Georgie was harping on the inherent, albeit healthy fear of public uprisings all council members possessed. The Reverend was especially susceptible, as he had already seen the extent of havoc a vigilante mob can wreck as a result of working with the Funns for so long. 

‘I suppose you are right.’ He ascended but scratched his head of fine grey hair in a fit of uncertainty. ‘Still, I don't see how this will all work with both of our funeral directors being incapacitated.’ 

He gestured at the tangled heap of undertakers by his feet. 

‘Don't suppose you could conduct the memorial service, Georgie?’

‘You need me on pallbearer duty, Reverend.’ Georgie gently reminded him. ‘I am the only one.’

‘I can do it.’ Antigone muttered under her breath; an offer no one heard. Or taken seriously.

‘How would you like to be in charge, Madeline?’ Rudyard turned to me but I had to nip his blooming hopes in the bud.

‘What did she say?’ Georgie asked and Rudyard translated with a bereaved frown.

‘That she can't do it seeing how no one on the island speaks mouse.’

‘And to think that Dezzy wants to have sixty-eight languages.’ Sighed the Reverend.

‘I CAN DO IT!’ Antigone shouted, appearing to have reached the end of her tether.

‘You?’ Repeated Rudyard dubiously. ‘Antigone, you hate public speaking.’

‘Rudyard, I have conducted the late Captain Sodbury's funeral, organised the Roger Noggins Celabratorial Ceremonial Memorial Gala Funeral with no help from you and directed and starred in the criticality acclaimed last play of Isabella McGoovan.’ Antigone seethed with the vindictive expression of an aggravated owl. ‘As experience goes, I consider myself very versatile.’ 

‘Jolly good.’ Enthused the Reverend, clapping his hands. ‘Shall we make our way to the Parade then?’

‘Now hang on for a minute.’ Rudyard wailed as he strained against Chapman's weight in a valiant yet ultimately futile effort to free himself. ‘What am _I_ supposed to do?’ 

Stepping to a discreet storage cupboard, hidden in the wall, Georgie dragged out a dark velvet sheet they usually used to cover podiums and tables or to put under the base moulding of the coffins. She placed it near Rudyard's reach as she said:

‘Make sure Eric doesn't die of exposure.’ And then, offering over her shoulder as their small congregation began to trudge outside. ‘Maybe check he doesn't choke on his own puke.’

‘Delightful.’ Rudyard grimaced with disgust.

‘And Rudyard?’ Antigone poked her head back through the door. ‘Don't cock it up!’ 

With the staff team and the Reverend now gone, a disheartening silence befell the funeral home, consolidating in the gentle spaces between dust particles and withing the hairline cracks. The only sound was the rhythmic puff of Chapman's dainty little snores and under that, just above the threshold of perceptibility, the steady stream of Rudyard's mild curses. 

'In the name of flipping… bloody… stupid…' He muttered as he attempted to negotiate his own space where Chapman's arm was thrown over his torso; smooth, warm and unyielding like a slab of marble. Finally resigning to defeat and addressing his musings half to me, half to himself he sighed.

'Still, it could be worse. This is Eric Chapman at his most tolerable, after all. Blessedly unconscious. Blissfully silent.'

He announced just as he turned to contemplate his captor. And while evidence had shown that he was more than capable of tolerating Chapman at his most alert, I have to admit that there was something profoundly endearing about the undertaker, deep in slumber. Without the dazzling aura of his illusionary perfection, in his current state of heartrending vulnerability, Eric Chapman looked human at last. And Rudyard seemed mesmerized by it.

That and his rival's intensely immediate presence, perhaps. It was hard not to think about all the different ways they were pressed together, entangled as they were, jabbing scapula to keen clavicle, abrupt crest of iliac to pliant slope of oblique muscle. So to distract himself, Rudyard endeavoured to brush a stray, matted strand of hair from his nemesis' forehead. Allowing the motion to pan out, Rudyard's hand ghosted over the spot where some rouge grey hairs appeared on his temple, infiltrating the perfect honey colour in a follicular act of rebellion. Granting himself further leeway, he let his eyes study the inverse Braille of Eric's crow’s feet, contemplate the symphony of smiles preserved in those grooves. From there his gaze trespassed to the humbling detail of the delicate, minute crook to Chapman's nose some would have described as “aquiline” but Rudyard would have simply called “big”. It was a deeply humanising indication of his snout having been broken once and then inexpertly set. It bore the implication that even Eric Chapman was capable of a misstep; it was a relic of an enemy underestimated perhaps or a volatile reminder of him misjudging his own agility. Someone somewhere may have delivered a skilled right hook that defiled the angelic perfection of that complexion forever and Rudyard felt strangely indebted to that nameless stranger. His eyes glided with ease all the way to Eric's philtrum, then hesitated there for a moment before beholding the slack curve of his mouth, lips altogether too pink, too smooth, even in their relaxed, slightly drooping state, just flashing an enticing peek of even, white rows of teeth.

Rudyard sighed around his misgivings, a bloating presence inside his larynx bent on choking him up. But as he was about to tear his gaze away Eric's eyes fluttered unexpectedly open. Chapman's mouth went flat but his eyebrows quirked and as he fully considered the proximity of his rival, he blearily muttered.

'Rudyard-'

'Chapman?' Rudyard's little quip was almost unintelligible as apprehension pooled in the pit of his stomach, depriving him of air.

Screwing his eyes shut against the offending brightness of the bleak room, Chapman adjusted his grip around Rudyard, pulling him against the bow of his chest and knees, nesting to Rudyard's tensing back. 

'Come here, you big bear.' He muttered, only half-conscious, his hot breath shivering against Rudyard's neck as he sunk back to a state of repose.

'Steady on, Chapman.' Rudyard muttered thickly, attempting to extricate himself once more before accepting his fate. He reached out, retrieved the velvet coverlet Georgie provided with great foresight and laid it clumsily over their intertwined forms. He looked warm, content and protected, tucked against everything that made Eric Chapman soft and vulnerable. In lieu of better action, he allowed his head to come to rest where Eric's arm met his shoulder and slowly dozed off himself. 

*

Hours have passed with only me staying up, sitting vigil, unable to contain my excitement over what the moment of truth when both funeral directors awoke, will bring. The unexpected downtime gave me an opportunity to transcribe my shorthand I used to jot down everything that had happened so far, which suited me down to the ground. So focused was I on my work that I nearly missed the shift to Rudyard's relaxed posture, signalling that he was coming to.

Blinking, still, in a drowsy haze, he turned his head around to stare at Chapman, uncomprehending. Eric, already awake and alert as he was, flashed an apologetic half-smile at him, whispering: 

‘Good to see you, Rudyard. You look good wrapped in a bedsheet.’

The phrase had the power of jolting Rudyard into immediate wakefulness. Scampering through the floor, he pushed himself away from Chapman, shuffling on his backside until he had his spine safely backed against the counter. Clutching the cover to his sternum like a bashful bride, surprised in her boudoir, he snapped at Chapman through the sleep that still seemed to fill his mouth, thick as cotton wool.

‘Well, Chapman?’

‘Not really, I feel a tad peaky.’ Eric sat up, gingerly, throwing his arms around his knees he was tucking to his chest.

‘No, I meant what have you got to say for yourself?’ Rudyard squinted, not the least bit amused.

‘Right. About this morning. Blimey, I must have looked like a right plum.’ Chapman chuckled miserably, to which Rudyard responded with a stiff, upity sniff.

‘As a pillar of professionalism, nothing could be further from me than to pass judgement, so let me just say this: you were acting like an utter knob. I mean, what were you even thinking, binge drinking when you were supposed to conduct a funeral later in the day?’

‘Good lord.’ Chapman’s eyes widened in sudden recognition. ‘The funeral! The funeral, Rudyard, I had a funeral at three o’clock-‘

‘Settle down, Chapman.’ Smirked Rudyard smugly. ‘You’ll find that Funn Funerals was happy to provide an honest and reliable service while you decided to get sloshed in broad daylight.’ 

‘It was just supposed to be the one drink.’ Eric sighed, sufficiently regretful, massaging his forehead. ‘Something to get rid off all the pain.’

‘Pain? Are you sick, Chapman?’ Rudyard scowled, unable to keep the mirth out of his voice.

Eric hesitated to answer, proceeding to busy himself with some imaginary lint on his lap before he confessed.

‘In a sense.’ As he looked up at Rudyard his eyes, usually pale blue, somehow took a deeper shade, tinted with bereavement. Rudyard shifted, uncomfortable in the crosshair of that gaze that seemed to bear down with a palpable weight against him. His jaw milled uselessly around some words that threatened to spill, altogether too big and too wonderful to be uttered. Wary of their power to conjure and to bound Rudyard decided to swallow them back in, landing on the far more neutral: 

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Not particularly.’ Admitted Chapman, the mere thought of food making him appear nauseous.

‘Georgie thinks that I should be making you a fry up. Apparently.’ Rudyard shrugged.

The thing is that he wasn't just offering for Chapman's benefit. The sight of Chapman, sitting like a man-shaped bruise on the fabric of the universe, a shadow of a crack on the firmament, threatening to let the grief flood in made him desperate to find something for his hands to do. Because the ghost of the texture of Eric's hair against his fingers seemed to have animated them to a life of their own and they threatened to find a purpose themselves unless presented with an alternative.

So he stood. Despondent, yet filled with determination, he folded the velveteen sheet in the silence that wasn't the conciliatory kind. He nipped to the kitchen shortly after and by the time Chapman had caught up with him he was waist-deep in the fridge. A barren wasteland of plastic and glass stared back at him, almost conceited in its futility. There was a single carton of six eggs, in the furthest corner from the light of the small bulb. That wasn't a coincidence. It was for a victory dish, a meal to celebrate their successful commission. They were planning to boil them and ration them for weeks. So he quickly cracked four of them in a derelict punch bowl before he had time to reconsider. He only hesitated before the fifth one, contemplating saving it for Georgie. But then he decided that he .can probably guilt her into forgiving him and slid the yolk into his concoction. The last, however, he kept for Antigone. She didn't need an excuse to strangle him on the best of days, so why provide her with one? Yet, seeing how he was going to be in trouble anyway, he used generous helpings of her precious portion of butter to finish his “fry up”. He threw in a pair of ancient spuds before they had a chance to come to dark sentience and paid unprecedented levels of attention to the process of scrambling. It was an excuse, as good as any, to avoid looking at Eric. This way he only had the memory of the accommodating weight and warmth of Chapman curling against him to contend with, the proximity of that awful, infuriating, pretentious, perfect, charming, handsome-

‘Dig in, Chapman.’ He presented what ended up begin an egg and potato scramble, his cadence far too disgruntled, not at all what he was aiming for. Chapman seemed appreciative nevertheless, seeming suddenly famished. ‘I am afraid we are out of sausages so you'll have to imagine.’

‘That's fin-‘

‘And the mushrooms.’

‘It's ok, I-‘

‘And the bacon.’

‘I don't m-‘

‘Could make some toast, if you fancy.’

‘Rudyard.’ Eric interrupted, gentle but forceful. ‘This is perfect, thank you.’

‘Don't mention it.’ My friend lifted his hand into a forbidding gesture when he saw that Chapman was about to protest. ‘No, seriously. I have a reputation to maintain, you know.’

Eric chuckled then estimated his plate.

‘This is plenty, Rudyard.’ He proceeded to plead. ‘Don't you want some?’

Rudyard crossed his arms against his abdomen to stifle the greedy growls of hunger as it clawed against his insides and shook his head.

‘No, thank you.’ Adding. ‘We are having carrots later.’

Well, they were _now_. 

He stepped to the sink and started to wash up to distract himself from the thoughts of impending doom he'll have to face when the others came home to an empty fridge. He heard, rather than saw the muted aggression to the way Eric gently placed his cutlery down again, the sudden burst of anger, barely repressed. He refused to look up as his rival planted himself beside him, giving undue attention to drying the bowl in his clutch. 

‘You know, Rudyard’ Eric began, desperation etched in his very frame. ‘this isn't making much sense to me at the moment.’ 

Having finished drying up, Rudyard folded his tea towel in half. Then again. And again, until it was the size of a handkerchief. Still, he wished he had a reason to fold it more.

‘Keeping away from you makes me so confused, and sad, and mad as Hell.’ Chapman sighed, frustrated, raking his fingers through his infuriatingly perfect mane. ‘And when I feel this way the only person I want to see is you.’

Rudyard placed down the towel, already bemoaning the loss of having something substantial in his restless hands. Taking an unusually long time to fan the embers of their familiar animosity, he looked up with an imperious scowl.

‘Oh, get a hold of yourself, Chapman.’ He lectured though his voice had an almost undetectable undercurrent of sympathy. ‘I know that you think that your schoolboy crush is the most profound thing that has ever happened to you, but-'

‘Sorry?’

‘We have to behave like reasonable adults You don't last long in this business without being able to count how many funeral homes an island's got. And we are trying run two in a community that can barely support one!’ 

‘Ah, I beg to differ!’

‘I knew you would.’ Rudyard sighed, exasperated as he braced his palms against his hips to keep them reeled in. Yet he put up no protests when Chapman reached out, taking his wrist into his own, worrying the delicate juncture of joints and bones. His breath hitched, ever so slightly, while he forced himself to push through his tirade. ‘B-but what kind of future do you imagine we could have together?’ 

He found himself mesmerized by the minute sigils Eric's was tracing against the delicate skin between his thumb and forefinger, unable to resist the strange gravity of the sight. 

‘Do you have absolutely no trust in us, Rudyard?’ 

‘This isn't about us, Chapman. This is about one's duty to put our noble industry first. When our father left me in charge, he said that only death is for forever.’ Rudyard addressed to their co-joined hands. The mournful toll of his voice had the echo of many generations to it, a reverb of their firm belief of nothing getting better, of there being no such thing as change. 

Making a frill hand gesture with his left as if to imply the fickle nature of things, he explained: 

‘Gorgeous, handsome men with a convoluted past may come and go. Even love can wither and die. But stick with death and you'll have a business for life.’

‘Rudyard, you can't be serious!’ Eric's exasperation had such a besotted ring to it that Rudyard's head snapped up involuntarily.

That proved a mistake; the way Eric Chapman stood in front of him, crumpled from having slept in his suit, made him more alluring than ever. The shadow of blond stubble was offsetting the stubborn slant of his jaw, complemented by the intense plea to the expression in his eyes. 

‘I am a very serious man.’ Rudyard uttered breathlessly. He stepped away from Chapman, backing from the sentiment ballooning between them. 

‘That may be, but we both know that you did not once escape a hospital and desecrated a funeral of forty clowns in a desperate act, fit to tarnish the very name of the funerary practice because you are such cunning, ruthless, devious a businessman!’ Argued Eric, cramming his hands in his pocket, twisting his posture into a resolute slouch, with a defeated rage to the slope of his shoulders.

‘How dare you!’ Seethed Rudyard and he could have sworn that he felt every individual cell in his face as they began to burn under the sudden onslaught of blood migrating to his cheeks.

‘No, Rudyard. I think you did it because it matters.’ 

‘N-now, Chapman stop trying to confuse me-‘ Rudyard protested weakly but Eric simply talked over him.

‘Because you are, in point of fact, a man of quiet passion, who cares deeply about the people around you. And you don't value commerce over love. Not really.’

‘Chapman-‘

‘Neither are you so different from me. Just think about it, Rudyard; we both have a penchant for scheduling, a fondness for order and obedience and-and-and...’

But just as Eric's voice trailed off, frailing under the strain to convey something too huge for words, Rudyard seemed to have gathered himself.

‘What's your point, Chapman?’ He asked evenly and Eric shrugged, defeatist, defiant.

‘Well, I guess the bottom line is that I find it pretty easy to empathise with you.’ He rubbed the back of his tired neck. Looking up shyly from under his staggering, blond lashes, he added. ‘And even easier to love you.’

The rushing sensation of relief, this great, big unburdening was at odds with the stock stillness of the scene. Rudyard and Eric inspected every square inch of the room between them in a desperate curry to avoid looking at each other. Finally, my friend lifted his unwilling hands to his eyes, rubbing them through his shuttered lids.

‘Jesus, Chapman.’ He whinged, almost pained. ‘Of all the people on this barely island, why did it have to be you? When Georgie learns that I love _you_ , she'll never let me live it down. Antigone will fill my life with spiders and-'

'What was that?' The whiplash of the speed of Eric snapping his head sent his blond locks flying about his face. ‘What did you say?' 

'I said she'll want to eliminate me, do keep up.'

'No, before that.'

'Ah.' As if still debating himself, Rudyard pressed his lips in a thin, flat line, his muttering almost incomprehensible as he admitted. 'I said I love you, Chapman.' 

'Rudyard-' Eric sucked in the air, sharply.

And then nothing was forthcoming, no sound apart from the frantic scratching of my pen against the tiny notebook I made from some discarded post-it notes.

'Well? What? What?' Rudyard choked, crossing his arms against his chest to stifle his heart's wild attempts for escape, repress its loud thudding as it continued to throw itself recklessly against his chest cavity. ‘You can talk, can’t you? Well, say something!'

But it seemed that the smooth-tongued salesman of the village was at loss for words for once. Instead, he dragged his hands from the confines of his pocket, clumsy in his haste and cupped them gently against Rudyard's jaw. His eyes were trailing Rudyard's features in a hectic pattern, his thumb brushed over Rudyard’s bottom lip until, after what felt like an eternity, he finally leaned down to place the most chaste, yet reverent kiss against his lips. His touch was humble but ardent like he was sampling nectar from the cusp of his palms. It was a silent communion save from the small smacks of the meeting of their lips, pliant against hungry. That is until Rudyard broke the awesome stillness with a soft, bleary moan of: 

'Good lord.' A noise that was enough to drive Eric a bit feral.

'Rudyard-' he rasped in response, punch drunk on the sound. His chaste kisses grew more heated as I gathered myself to make a discreet exit; as even a biographer as dutiful as I am, knows when her presence becomes intrusive. But there was no need for me to rush to make a flustered farewell; a shout from outside interrupted the men anyway. 

'Rudyard, get your backside out here, this instant.' Georgie demanded loudly from the foyer and the lack of her usual, respectful manner or indeed, the loss of her composure was a sure sign of some trouble in the making. 

Eric forced himself to break away, replacing the seal of his mouth with his arms, twining one hand behind the small of Rudyard's back, fisting the suit over Rudyard's shoulder with the other. He rolled their foreheads together, panting in the air Rudyard expelled, while the other funeral director thumbed the material of his lapels, swallowing hard. 

‘Today’s as good a day for my funeral as any, anyway.’ He muttered, pained, as he finally freed himself from the embrace. He smoothed down his suit; jaw locked in stubbornly, eyes set firmly ahead. He gave himself a minute pep talk, reminding himself. ‘Now let’s tackle this as reasonable adults. No sentimental nonsense, just stiff upper lip. Think _grave_.’

But before he had a chance to attend to the emergency brewing in his front room, Eric caught his elbow. 

‘Rudyard.’ He whispered with some evident difficulty. ‘I just wanted to say that we can keep schtum. About us. If you are not quite ready to talk to the others, that is.’ 

The soft glow of relief to Rudyard's expression would have made a much bigger sacrifice worthwhile. 

‘Thank you, Chapman.’ He planted a rushed kiss on Eric's lips before adding, much less guarded, more sincere this time. ‘I love you.’ 

And with that, he nipped to the foyer before Chapman had a chance to trap him in another snogging session. 

‘Georgina, what is all this fracas about?’ He boomed upon entering, but the scene was speaking for itself. Georgie staggered in, supporting Antigone who slouched slowly across the bullpen, frequently imbalanced by her furious desire to stop and start punching the air around her, mewling and growling. 

‘Nyah.’

‘Is she ok?’ Asked Eric as he followed Rudyard. 

‘She hasn't been ok for thirty-five years, I don't see why she's ought to be now.’ Concluded Rudyard, while Georgie shot a vicious sort of smile at Chapman, showing too much teeth altogether.

‘How are you, Eric?’ 

‘A bit worse for wear.’ Admitted Chapman, wincing slightly against the onslaught of noises.

‘SORRY YOU ARE NOT FEELING WELL, CHAPMAN.’ Yelled Georgie not even trying to mask her pettiness, getting a sufficiently pained jolt out of the undertaker before turning back to Rudyard. ‘Antigone got completely rat -arsed at the Parade, sir.’ 

Rudyard's eyes widened in panic upon receiving the news.

‘First the village. Then Chapman and now Antigone. It’s an epidemic!’

‘It’s those bloody Cypriot High Commissioners, Sir. They completely took over the memorial service, turned it into a full-blown rave. Dr Edgware had to pump forty people’s stomach and they just went straight back to partying!’

‘Crikey-‘ Muttered Chapman, scuffing his shoes against the floor in a fit of guilt. 

‘How come you are not drunk?’ Wondered Rudyard, contemplating Georgie. 

‘I’m great at holding my liquor.’ Georgie reminded him. ‘But sir, there’s nothing funny about your sister getting plastered in plain sight.’ 

‘I never said it was funny, Georgie.’ 

‘Well, you look happy. I mean you are smiling and everything.’

‘No, I’m not!’ Rudyard exclaimed in disbelief, lifting a hand to feel the outline of his own chin before making an annoyed wave. ‘It’s called a grimace, Georgina. Focus! Now, we better try and sober _her_ up. I don’t suppose you have some spring rolls on you?’ 

‘No, but-‘

‘No, it was too much to ask for wasn’t it?’ Rudyard pouted, earning his assistant’s murderous glare.

‘Rudyard.’ Georgie gnarled, threat increasing in her voice. ‘We both know that I am great at acquiring spring rolls but I think we need something a tad more immediate.’ 

Antigone chose just this moment to try and escape Georgie’s clutch, a new fit of what was either an attempt at dancing or a right hook seizing her, proving the dogsbody’s point. 

‘Guess we’ll have to make do with the egg and potato scramble I just made.’ Rudyard sighed a long-suffering sigh while Georgie rolled her eyes 

‘Sir, that will do brilliantly. But how did you know-‘

‘Chalk one up to intuition, I suppose.’ Rudyard talked over her in haste before she began to ask too many questions. He ducked under Antigone’s other arm, starting to walk her towards the kitchen. ‘We must deal with her right away. She’s hard enough to tolerate on the best of days, I really don’t want to see what she’s like when she is hungover.’ 

‘And I guess I should attend to that hijacked funeral, after all.’ Announced Eric to no one in particular, looking a bit at loss as to what to do with himself. 

‘Settle down, Sunshine Man.’ Georgie offered over her shoulder as they shuffled towards the back of the funeral parlour in an ungainly procession. ‘Miss Doyle is dealing with it. She’s going to lend some combat gear to the village hoodlums and together they’ll put the whole, entire bunch on charge, I imagine. Meanwhile, I’m afraid whatever commission you were going to make with this funeral will now have to pay for the thousands of pounds worth of property damage, Eric.’ 

‘What?!’ Rudyard shouted, staggering to a halt. ‘Georgina, _we_ were supposed to get that money!’ 

‘Not with all that vandalism around sir, we won’t.’ 

‘Unbelievable!’

‘I’m sorry, Rudyard-‘ Eric mumbled and my friend shot a flawlessly antagonistic glare at him. 

‘So you should be. Don’t think that we are going to make a habit out of this. Dealing with your mess, gratis.’ Rudyard threatened, shuddering with disgust at the mere sound of the word meaning _freebie_. ‘No, Chapman. The war is pretty much still on. Funn Funerals will give you a real run for your money, mark my words.’ 

‘I’m looking forward to it.’ Eric grinned, looking up at Rudyard with the most smitten expression of poorly concealed fondness we’d ever seen him sport, before catching himself. Then he put up a paper-thin, practically transparent display of scowling angrily. ‘I-I mean-‘ 

But no one was listening, once again. Georgie and Rudyard disappeared down the hall, bickering, Rudyard’s imperious voice carrying a great deal as he interrogated his assistant. 

‘What was she drinking?’

‘He had half a glass of wine, Sir.’ Georgie sighed, trying to placate him, but Rudyard kept complaining. 

‘Standards are plummeting around here. My very own sister! I can’t believe her nerve!’

‘Give her a break, Rudyard. It’s good for her, to live a little.’ 

‘Not when it’s impeding on Funn Funerals’ reputation, it isn’t.’

Meanwhile, Eric continued to stand in the front room, brimming with waves of tumultuous, happy emotions, just short of clicking his heels together with cheer. Slowly calming, gathering his unspooled composure he rasped his palm against his five o’clock shadow and made a displeased expression at the sight of his suit. Nodding to himself decisively, he turned on his heels and trudged towards Chapman’s with determination, leaving me alone once more. 

And so, in the solitude of the foyer of Funn Funerals, I crossed the “t”s and dotted the “is” on my notes, unable to repress a delighted little smile. I know that writing about people being nice to each other is never going to earn me a shortlisting for the _Of Mice and Man Booker Prize_.

But it certainly made for a nice change for once. 

* * *

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_“This novel has billed itself as a sort of philosophical treatise on the nature of loneliness. But at heart, it’s just a raunchy book.” – excerpt from Literary Analysis of "Memoirs of a Funeral House Mouse" recorded by Professor Virgil Sodbury's for “Popular Women’s Historical Fiction and Design”, at the Piffling Polytechnic, 2020_

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Georgie Crusoe is actually *great* at lifting up drunken undertakers. I suspect that this time she didn't even try.
> 
> Aaaaanyway, do you ever get screwed over by your own naming conventions when writing a series?  
> Yeah, no, me either. *sweats*


End file.
